All I can do is watch helplessly.
Lines form between his brows as he slams his eyes shut. Panic is etched into every crevice of his face, and it looks like he’s just trying to block out the noise of the crowd to focus on one disaster at a time. I can only imagine what he’s hearing and feeling.
The ringing in my ears blocked out the screams and jeers some time ago, but it looks like every syllable muttered is landing like a heavy blow upon him.
Watching someone struggle, fighting for their life with all dignity left at the door, is such a depleting feeling. Everything in me feels hollow and too full at the same time. It’s as if I am the one hanging between the podiums, entertainment for the masses, as I blindly reach for my saving grace, only to come up empty-handed time and time again.
When I’m about to close my eyes because it just feels like too much, by some miracle, he grabs the ring. I close my eyes in relief, and I send up a silent prayer.
How am I going to make it through these trials when I feel this drained from just spectating the first one? Death is inevitable this week. It’s expected. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
If I don’t die in the process of participating, just watching might kill me.
He makes no move to grab onto the next ring. The muscles in his arms strain under his weight, but he’s just hanging in place. I can see his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he works up the courage to keep going. I’m assuming by the thickness of the glasses he wore that he’s practically blind without them.
My shoulders tense.
I think I’m going to puke.
He finally lets go of the ring and reaches toward one of the last remaining. His fingers miss it by the smallest fraction, causing him to swing backward by one arm, his body spinning uncontrollably. His arm flails recklessly again, looking for the next ring to grab, but he misses it each time. The momentum of the swing is too much for him to remain holding with one arm. His fingers are slipping.
“It’s to your right,” I shout through my hands. “REACH TO YOUR RIGHT!”
He frantically grabs the air to the right of him, continuing to miss.
A scream lodges in my throat, refusing to come out as I watch his fingers slip off, and he falls.
And falls.
He keeps reaching for the ring even in his descent.
He never even makes a noise going down.
I shake my head in denial.
Carefully getting down on my hands and knees, I crawl to the edge. I close my eyes, willing strength into my heart because I know this is going to hurt, but I have to look. There has to be some kind of closure, even if it tears another small fragment of my soul out and casts it to these damn winds.
Dread and reluctance line my spine, but I force myself to open my eyes and peer over the ledge. His body now rests in the cavern between the two podiums, multiple wooden spikespenetrating him. The broken glasses rest mere inches from his head.
I flinchasAksel Penton deceased. Ashlyn Yvaine, promoted to lieutenant, group two,is broadcast across the speakers. Screams and taunts surround me, as if the voices are amplified with some kind of magic.
I can’t do this.
I dig my hands into the cold grass, grounding myself before scooting backward and finding the resilience to stand. I wanted to be something other than adequate, and here’s my chance to prove to myself that I’m capable of more than I ever thought possible. But maybe adequate isn’t so bad after all. Adequate and alive sure sounds better than extraordinary and dead.
“You’re up,” the candidate behind me, hanging on the ladder with one hand, declares. Like I didn’t already know this. As if I didn’t watch a young man fall to his death, opening up the spot for the next prospect to attempt the same damn suicidal mission.
There’s only enough room for one person at a time to be up here and get the running start needed, so until I jump, he has to continue hanging on the ropes. The permanent-looking scowl on his upturned face doesn’t exactly scream team spirit, so I just nod and make my way over to him, allowing plenty of space for my running start.
I shiver and shake out my arms. The fact that Ambrose is in the stands watching, and Finnley and Mallory are somewhere in line to do this reckless trial, makes me feel like heaving. I have to just block it out for now and pretend it’s just me here. Just me and these rings, and I’m going to crush it.
I will not die a senseless death.
I won’t fucking fail.
I’m sure there’s some self-encouragement speech out there that’s better, but this is all I’ve got.
Screw it. I’m just going to go with it.
